THE BODY ON THE BEACH.
In the meanwhile, where was he whose headlong passions had precipitated
this catastrophe? where was Thurston? After having parted with his
confederate, he hurried home, for a very busy day lay before him. To
account for his sudden departure, and long absence, and to cover his
retreat, it was necessary to have some excuse, such as a peremptory
summons to Baltimore upon the most important business. Once in that
city, he would have leisure to find some further apology for proceeding
directly to France without first returning home. Now, strange as it may
appear, though his purposed treachery to Marian wrung his bosom with
remorse whenever he paused to think of it, yet it was the remorse
without humiliation; for he persuaded himself that stratagem was fair in
love as in war, especially in his case with Marian, who had already
given him her hand; but now the unforseen necessity of these subterfuges
made his cheek burn. He hastened to Dell-Delight, and showing the old
man a letter he had that morning received from the city, informed him
that he was obliged to depart immediately, upon affairs of the most
urgent moment to him, and then, to escape the sharp stings of
self-scorn, he busied himself with arranging his papers, packing his
trunks and ordering his servants. His baggage was packed into and behind
the old family carriage, and having completed his preparations about one
o'clock, he entered it, and was driven rapidly to the village.
The schooner was already at the wharf and waiting for him. Thurston met
many of his friends in the village, and in an off-hand manner explained
to them the ostensible cause of his journey. And thus, in open daylight,
gayly chatting with his friends, Thurston superintended the embarkation
of his baggage. And it was not until one by one they had shaken hands
with him, wished him a good voyage and departed, that Thurston found
himself alone with the captain in the cabin.
"Now you know, Miles, that I have not come on board to remain. When the
coast is clear I shall go on shore, get in the carriage, and return to
Dell-Delight. I must meet my wife on the beach. I must remain with her
through all. I must take her on board. You will be off Pine Bluff just
at dusk, captain?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"You will not be a moment behind hand?"
"Trust me for that, Cap'n."
"See if the people have left."
The skipper went on deck and returned to report the coast clear.
Thurston then went on shore, entered the carriage, and was driven
homeward.
It was nearly four o'clock when he reached Dell-Delight, and there he
found the whole premises in a state of confusion. Several negroes were
on the lookout for him; and as soon as they saw him ran to the house.
"What is the meaning of all this?" he inquired, detaining one of the
hindmost.
"Oh, Marse Thuster, sir! oh, sir!" exclaimed the boy, rolling his eyes
quite wildly.
"What is the matter with the fool?"
"Oh, sir; my poor ole marse! my poor ole marse!"
"What has happened to your master? Can't you be plain, sir?"
"Oh, Marse Thuster, sir! he done fell down inter a fit, an had to be
toted off to bed."
"A fit! good heavens! has a doctor been summoned?" exclaimed Thurston,
springing from his seat.
"Oh, yes, sir! Jase be done gone arter de doctor."
Thurston stopped to inquire no farther, but ran into the house and up
into his grandfather's chamber.
There a distressing scene met his eyes. The old man, with his limbs
distorted, and his face swollen and discolored, lay in a state of
insensibility upon the bed. Two or three negro women were gathered
around him, variously occupied with rubbing his hands, chafing his
temples and wiping the oozing foam from his lips. At the foot of the bed
stood poor daft Fanny, with disheveled hair and dilated eyes, chanting a
grotesque monologue, and keeping time with a see-saw motion from side to
side. The first thing Thurston did, was to take the hand of this poor
crazed, but docile creature, and lead her from the sick-room up into her
own. He bade her remain there, and then returned to his grandfather's
bedside. In reply to his anxious questioning, he was informed that the
old man had fallen into a fit about an hour before--that a boy had been
instantly sent for the doctor, and the patient carried to bed; but that
he had not spoken since they laid him there. It would yet be an hour
before the doctor could possibly arrive, and the state of the patient
demanded instant attention.
And withal Thurston was growing very anxious upon Marian's account. The
sun was now sinking under a dark bank of clouds. The hour of his
appointed meeting with her was approaching. He felt, of course, that his
scheme must for the present be deferred--even if its accomplishment
should again seem necessary, which was scarcely possible. But Marian
would expect him. And how should he prevent her coming to the beach and
waiting for him there? He did not know where a message would most likely
now to find her, whether at Luckenough, at Old Fields or at Colonel
Thornton's. But he momentarily expected the arrival of Dr. Brightwell,
and he resolved to leave that good man in attendance at the sick bed,
while he himself should escape for a few hours; and hurry to the beach
to meet and have an explanation with his wife.
But an hour passed, and the doctor did not come.
Thurston's eyes wandered anxiously from the distorted face of the dying
man before him, to the window that commanded the approach to the house.
But no sign of the doctor was to be seen.
The sun was on the very edge of the horizon. The sufferer before him was
evidently approaching his end. Marian he knew must be on her way to the
beach. And a dreadful storm was rising.
His anxiety reached fever heat.
He could not leave the bedside of his dying relative, yet Marian must
not be permitted to wait upon the beach, exposed to the fierceness of
the storm, or worse the rudeness of his own confederates.
He took a sudden resolution, and wondered that he had not done so
before. He resolved to summon Marian as his wife to his home.
Full of this thought, he hastened down stairs and ordered Melchizedek to
put the horse to the gig and get ready to go an errand. And while the
boy was obeying his directions, Thurston penned the following lines to
Marian:
"My dear Marian--my dear, generous, long-suffering wife--come to my aid.
My grandfather has been suddenly stricken down with apoplexy, and is
dying. The physician has not yet arrived, and I cannot leave his
bedside. Return with my messenger, to assist me in taking care of the
dying man. You, who are the angel of the sick and suffering, will not
refuse me your aid. Come, never to leave me more! Our marriage shall be
acknowledged to-morrow, to-night, any time, that you in your nicer
judgment, shall approve. Come! let nothing hinder you. I will send a
message to Edith to set her anxiety at rest, or I will send for her to
be with you here. Come to me, beloved Marian. Dictate your own
conditions if you will--only come."
He had scarcely sealed this note, when the boy, hat in hand, appeared at
the door.
"Take this note, sir, jump in the gig and drive as fast as possible to
the beach below Pine Bluffs. You will see Miss Mayfield waiting there,
give her this note, and then--await her orders. Be quicker than you ever
were before," said Thurston, hurrying his messenger off.
Then, much relieved of anxiety upon Marian's account, he returned to the
sick-room and renewed his endeavors to relieve the patient.
Ah! he was far past relief now; he was stricken with death. And with
Thurston all thoughts, all feelings, all interests, even those connected
with Marian, were soon lost in that awful presence. It was the first
time he had ever looked upon death, and now, in the rushing tide of his
sinful passions and impetuous will, he was brought face to face with
this last, dread, all-conquering power! What if it were not in his own
person? What if it were in the person of an old man, very infirm, and
over-ripe for the great reaper? It was death--the final earthly end of
every living creature--death, the demolition of the human form, the
breaking up of the vital functions, the dissolution between soul and
body, the one great event that "happeneth to all;" the doom certain, the
hour uncertain; coming in infancy, youth, maturity, as often or oftener
than in age. These were the thoughts that filled Thurston's mind as he
stood and wiped the clammy dews from the brow of the dying man.
Thurston might have remained much longer, too deeply and painfully
absorbed in thought to notice the darkening of the night or the beating
of the storm, had not a gust of the rain and wind, of unusual violence,
shaken the windows.
This recalled Marian to his mind; it was nearly time for her to arrive;
he hoped that she was near the house; that she would soon be there; he
arose and went to the window to look forth into the night; but the deep
darkness prevented his seeing, as the noise of the storm prevented his
hearing the approach of any vehicle that might be near. He went back to
the bedside; the old man was breathing his life away without a struggle.
Thurston called the mulatto housekeeper to take his place, and then went
down stairs and out of the hall door, and gazed and listened for the
coming of the gig, in vain. He was just about to re-enter the hall and
close the door when the sound of wheels, dashing violently,
helter-skelter, and with break-neck speed into the yard, arrested his
attention.
"Marian! it is my dear Marian at last; but the fellow need not risk her
life to save her from the storm by driving at that rate. My own Marian!"
he exclaimed, as he hurried out, expecting to meet her.
Melchizedek alone sprang from the gig, and sank trembling and quaking at
his master's feet.
Thurston blindly pushed past him, and peered and felt in the gig. It was
empty.
"Where is the lady, sirrah? What ails you? Why don't you answer me?"
exclaimed Thurston, anxiously returning to the spot where the boy
crouched. But the latter remained speechless, trembling, groaning, and
wringing his hands. "Will you speak, idiot? I ask you where is the lady?
Was she not upon the beach? What has frightened you so? Did the horse
run away?" inquired Thurston, hurriedly, in great alarm.
"Oh, sir, marster! I 'spects she's killed!"
"Killed! Oh, my God! she has been thrown from the gig!" cried the young
man, in a piercing voice, as he reeled under this blow. In another
instant he sprang upon the poor boy and shaking him furiously, cried in
a voice of mingled grief, rage and anxiety: "Where was she thrown? Where
is she? How did it happen? Oh! villain! villain! you shall pay for this
with your life! Come and show me the spot! instantly! instantly!"
"Oh, marster, have mercy, sir! 'Twasn't along o' me an' the gig it
happened of! She wur 'parted when I got there!"
"Where? Where? Good heavens, where?" asked Thurston, nearly beside
himself.
"On de beach, sir. Jes' as I got down there, I jumped out'n de gig, and
walked along, and then I couldn't see my way, an' I turned de bull-eye
ob de lantern on de sand afore me, an' oh, marse--"
"Go, on! go on!"
"I seen de lady lying like dead, and a man jump up and run away, and
when I went nigh, I seen her all welkering in her blood, an' dis yer
lying by her," and the boy handed a small poignard to his master.
It was Thurston's own weapon, that he had lost some months previous in
the woods of Luckenough. It was a costly and curious specimen of French
taste and ingenuity. The handle was of pearl, carved in imitation of the
sword-fish, and the blade corresponded to the long pointed beak that
gives the fish that name.
Thurston scarcely noticed that it was his dagger, but pushing the boy
aside, he ran to the stables, saddled a horse with the swiftness of
thought, threw himself into his stirrups, and galloped furiously away
towards the beach.
The rain was now falling in torrents, and the wind driving it in fierce
gusts against his face. The tempest was at its very height, and it
seemed at times impossible to breast the blast--it seemed as though
steed and rider must be overthrown! Yet he lashed and spurred his horse,
and struggled desperately on, thinking with fierce anguish of Marian,
his Marian, lying wounded, helpless, alone and dying, exposed to all the
fury of the winds and waves upon that tempestuous coast, and dreading
with horror, lest before he should be able to reach her, her helpless
form, still living, might be washed off by the advancing waves. Thus he
spurred and lashed his horse, and drove him against rain and wind, and
through the darkness of the night.
With all his desperate haste, it was two hours before he approached the
beach. And as he drew near the heavy cannonading of the waves upon the
shore admonished him that the tide was at its highest point. He pressed
rapidly onward, threw himself from his horse, and ran forward to the
edge of the bank above the beach. It was only to meet the confirmation
of his worst fears! The waters were thundering against the bank upon
which he stood. The tide had come in and overswept the whole beach, and
now, lashed and driven by the wind, the waves tossed and raved and
roared with appalling fury.
Marian was gone, lost, swept away by the waves! that was the thought
that wrung from him a cry of fierce agony, piercing through all the
discord of the storm, as he ran up and down the shore, hoping nothing,
expecting nothing, yet totally unable to tear himself from the fatal
spot.
And so he wildly walked and raved, until his garments were drenched
through with the rain; until the storm exhausted its fury and subsided;
until the changing atmosphere, the still, severe cold, froze all his
clothing stiff around him; so he walked, groaning and crying and calling
despairingly upon the name of Marian, until the night waned and the
morning dawned, and the eastern horizon grew golden, then crimson, then
fiery with the coming sun.
The sky was clear, the waters calm, the sands bare and glistening in the
early sunbeams; no vestige of the storm or of the bloody outrage of the
night remained--all was peace and beauty. In the distance was a single
snow-white sail, floating swan-like on the bosom of the blue waters. All
around was beauty and peace, yet from the young man's tortured bosom
peace had fled, and remorse, vulture-like, had struck its talons deep
into his heart. He called himself a murderer, the destroyer of Marian;
he said it was his selfishness, his willfulness, his treachery, that had
exposed her to this danger, and brought her to this fate! Some outlaw,
some waterman, or fugitive negro had robbed and murdered her. Marian
usually wore a very valuable watch; probably, also, she had money about
her person--enough to have tempted the cupidity of some lawless wretch.
He shrank in horror from pursuing conjecture--it was worse than torture,
worse than madness to him. Oh, blindness and frenzy; why had he not
thought of these dangers so likely to beset her solitary path? Why had
he so recklessly exposed her to them? Vain questions, alas! vain as was
his self-reproach, his anguish and despair!